Hello and Goodbye
by LivinJgrl123
Summary: *WWII A/U* *two-shot* It's less than three weeks before he leaves. And he almost got away clean, too. But then he had to go and meet the redhead sitting at the bar.
1. Part I: Hello, Stranger

**I own nothing that is Marvel's or anyone else's. I own what I own, obviously. This one-shot was inspired by my nonsense brain. As I said on my profile, while everything is comic based, I am using the characters/characterization from the movie-verses. Also, if you catch any mismatched sentences or misspellings or misplaced words or something of the like, forgive me, because reasons. Right, so, let's get on with one-shot, alrighty?**

* * *

_"There's a ghost upon the moor tonight,  
Now it's in our house,  
When you walked into the room just then,  
It's like the sun came out,  
It's like the sun came out."_

Gabrielle Aplin — 'Start of Time'

* * *

_Part I. _

_Hello, Stranger_

* * *

The night's chill must have been what drove the Russian towards the more brightly lit streets of Brooklyn—away from the dark alleys and side streets that she's so accustomed to using when she's out on a mission, hunting down her mark. But tonight she's not hunting down her mark; he's already been found. She'd been strictly ordered to come to Brooklyn, and the next day, she should find him, and then the _next day_, she should kill him. And she needs someplace to be, someplace warm, preferably, because even though she grew up in Russia, of all places, the cold still stings her skin, and she might be perfectly immune to it now, but in all honesty, sometimes indoors work better for her than outdoors do.

She's supposed to be pretending to be an American, an American all the way from the west coast, visiting Brooklyn, for family reasons, but she knows that no matter how hard one might try, you can't avoid suspicion forever. If a twenty-year-old like herself (as defenseless as she might look) is wandering the streets alone late at night, quite aimlessly, questions might be asked, and she might be investigated. She doesn't really want to deal with any questions, or investigations, tonight. She can handle it, no problem, but at the same time, she doesn't really want to deal with any sort of authority in America right now.

And besides, she's not supposed to kill _anyone_ else. No one's supposed to see her, or notice her, or even be aware of her existence as she stays in the city for the duration of her mission, just until she is able to take out the mark and get out of the country as fast as possible.

Natalia Romanova is convinced that there are too many bright, inviting places in Brooklyn. She's used to dark alleys, empty, abandoned warehouses, quiet houses with their occupants sleeping through the night—not this, not the constant hustle of the night life in this city. Moscow feels different from here. There is light, and warmth, and _pride_ here, and she has to admit that the feelings that the city projects are foreign, and she dislikes it terribly, though it's nice to be away from the Red Room—away from the instructors, the other girls, the training—everything.

Emotions are something the Red Room has been working very hard to work out of her system, ever since she joined, pretty much, in any possible way they can. But she knows that there are some biological basics that you cannot erase—such as the feelings the city gives her as she walks, looking straight ahead as her eyes darted to and fro, searching for a place she perhaps get a drink or some food at, some place where people would not ask questions—somewhere where she could be left in peace.

Eventually, up ahead of her, past a crowd of tall women, who are dressed in fine coats and shoes, laughing—looking as if they have all the innocence in the world, she sees a sign, hanging from the building on the corner. She squints to read past the hat-clad girls, who are squealing now quite loudly, and is somewhat pleased to see that, with the lamplight providing just enough visibility for her to see it, it is a bar. She can't very well make out the name, but it doesn't matter. A warm building and a cool drink should do the trick, though, some might want something warmer, like tea, on a chilly night like this. But not Natalia.

She manages to dart in between two particularly tall girls, ducking under their linked arms with the agility that could rival a graceful feline's. She hurries on, keeping her eyes on the building at the end of the sidewalk, and less than a minute, she has reached it.

She takes a moment, before entering, to look around her, to observe. There are people everywhere, getting in and out of cabs, crossing the streets, driving their cars, walking the sidewalks, some quiet, some somber, some loud, and some filled with the kind of boisterous, genuine laughter that has never once the Russian's lips. It makes her feel a twinge of something, deep inside, but, like everything else, she shoves it even deeper, till it's so far down, the sun won't ever see it—because that small twinge of that dark, heavy, consuming emotion that had spawned within her ribcage was unsettling, and Natalia Romanova _never _becomes unsettled. It's unbecoming of an assassin—the Red Room has been teaching her that since she first joined. They still teach her that. She can hear them perfectly, yelling at her inside her head in angry Russian, dwelling deep within the depths of the memories she refuses to dwell on during the day, and she shuts them out, as fast as she can, because she can't get distracted. Not here. Not now. Not when she doesn't _really_ have any time to herself.

She takes a breath, not deep, but moderately shallow. She sucks it in through her teeth, and she winces as her gums are affected by the cool night air. Squaring her shoulders as much as a woman in America could, she reaches for the door and rests her handle around the knob. She hesitates, for only a moment, contemplating nothing and something all at once, before she opens the door, and steps inside, allowing it to shut behind her, the little bell still ringing above her head. The sound of it ringing sounds festive—so unlike how she feels right now. As she makes her way to the near-empty bar counter, she notes that she has never really felt festive before. Not even on birthdays, because the Red Room celebrates those with ridiculous amounts of training difficult enough for her spirits to take a beating for the remainder of that day. Any holiday, truthfully, right now, felt irrelevant. There was no time to honestly give one's self over to traditions and festivities for day when one killed for a means of living.

She sits herself down, on a stool, and slides her purse down onto the counter top. The bartender turns from another patron, one seat down from her own, and smiles politely at her. She knows he's taking in her features—her flaming red hair, that's piled high on her head, her fine bone structure, the skin around her eyes caked in makeup to make her appear more innocent than she really is, because if one knew just how innocent she wasn't—if someone knew of what she's done and what she's going to do tomorrow and perhaps for the rest of her days, till she fails a mission and ends up getting killed for it—and she smiles politely right back at him. She's been told, by many marks, that her smile can light up a room, and tonight, she thinks that the bartender thinks just that—but it feels more stretched than usual. It's not as easy to produce, it's not as easy to keep on her face as she sighs and allows her stiff shoulders to relax a bit.

"What can I get you, ma'am?" The bartender seems nice, and kind, and almost fatherly. He looks to be about sixty, or older—no, she thinks that he looks grandfatherly.

She's about to ask for vodka, because she's used to that—used to the way it burns down her throat and settles in her belly in the worst (and best) of ways after a particularly bloody mission, when she needs to clear her mind of everything that she's done. She's not guilty, mind you—it's just that, some days, a distraction is in order for her to keep functioning the way she does.

No, instead of vodka (she wonders if this bar even has it), she simply asks for a glass of water, making sure to remember to use the American accent she's been working on for a long while now, and the elderly man nods while he sets about getting it. She thinks that he looked at her approvingly when she didn't ask for alcohol, but it's for the best—for her cover and herself. If she is hung-over tomorrow, she'll have difficulty taking out her mark without any witnesses successfully, and though she's done it before with a hangover, she'd rather not risk it.

A tall glass is set on the beige mug coaster in front of her. She gives the man a nod and a tight smile, indicating that she doesn't want to share any sort of conversation with him, and to her surprise, her just gives her one last smile before he goes about to the other patrons.

Out of habit, as her hands go to clasp the cold glass in front of her, her eyes dart around the room carefully. The bar is old, and it smells nice—not like alcohol, but like warmth. The seats of the booths are ratty, but not horrible. It's small, actually, and it's so quiet. She can count thirteen—no, fifteen—patrons in all, sharing the space with her, and that's not including the bartender, who is now talking to another woman at the opposite end of the bar from where she is.

She sighs, and decides that she can stay here for more than just a few minutes. Though everyone could be a potential threat, she decides to sink into her temporary role as a typical American citizen who wants nothing more than a glass of water to quench her thirst before she treks home through the streets, in a little while, at the least.

"Rough day?"

The voice comes from her right, and her eyes, now narrowed suspiciously, slide towards the man who has turned in his seat to face her fully. If he had said hello, she realizes, she would have been more concerned. But it's not a 'hello, stranger'. It's a simple inquiry, and her curiosity is somewhat piqued. She turns her head to get a better look at him, and immediately realizes that proceeding with answering his causal, harmless question might not be the best thing ever. He's dressed in his uniform—going to be shipped out soon, she guesses, someplace where he might never come back from. Talking to him isn't wise. The Red Room—

She decides, quite irrationally—and, had one of the instructor's been here, they would have punished her in the most painful of ways for her intended stupidity—to talk to him. Remembering herself, as she opens her mouth, she makes sure the American accent is as flawless as it's been getting, but it won't last forever. So she'll speak in short answers—so he won't suspect a thing. A few, friendly words exchanged with a stranger would do her harm—she was a Soviet spy, for goodness' sake—but she decided against her instincts, and answered him, because he really does seem simply curious—though his motives for talking to her might involve the fact that she is a pretty face—easy on the eyes, and he, obviously is a handsome man many a girl might swoon over, and since is definitely not her mark, she answers him truthfully.

She hasn't done that with a stranger—let alone an _American_—since . . . well, this must be the first time she's ever done something as stupid as this.


	2. Part II: Goodbye, Goodbye

_Part II._

_Goodbye, Goodbye_

* * *

James looks at the redhead with interest as he waits for her to answer; his eyes alight with intrigue as the answer "Yes," rolls easily off her tongue. He finds that there is a strange lilt within her voice, within the accent, and he's curious about it, because it's barely noticeable, and he _really_ likes it - he likes it a lot. And she's telling the truth, he's sure of it, because the beautiful woman in front of him (to his left, really) looks troubled—exhausted. He had been sure, moments ago, that she had almost ordered a shot of something—but had decided against it. But, to him, it looks like she still needs one. Even though she has makeup on, and even though he can't spot one single flaw in her beauty.

There's something about her, though. He can't really place it. He wishes he was better at reading people, at deciphering them like they were a code he could figure out in seconds, but he's not, so he settles for liking the subtle air of mysteriousness she gives off. It's not really noticeable, he realizes, as he smiles at her. You have to be looking at her for longer than a few seconds to realize that she's actually more closed off than you think she is. In fact, he thinks that if one merely passes her on the streets, one might catch a whiff of the air around her.

He wondered, idly, if she or anyone else had ever choked on that air of mysteriousness. A gut feeling told him someone had.

He likes her voice, he finds, even though she's only said one word to him, and he, only two words to her. It's soft, yet it probably can be firm. He knows he hasn't seen her around Brooklyn, or anywhere else, for that matter—ever. She's obviously not from around here, and he feels a bit curious as he continues to study her, while she gazes back at him with a relaxed, yet guarded, expression that tells him she doesn't usually talk to strangers. Well, he doesn't either—unless their girls, and he's trying to get Steve to go out on a double date with them, but he usually bails, so he's stuck with the two girls.

"Want to talk about it?" If there is anything he's learned from being in his early teens, it's that all girls like to talk. For some, it might take a while for them to open up, but eventually, they all will want to talk.

She shakes her head, and he shrugs. Eventually, she'll tell him. He would bet money, if Steve were here, but he's not, all James can do is settle for smiling at her still. He sees her brow furrow, and he thinks it might be one of the most adorable sights he's ever seen—besides kittens. Kittens are, admittedly, pretty adorable. But the way she's regarding him, sitting up, with her elbow's resting on the bar, with her head swiveled in his direction—it's utterly _endearing_. He's kind of surprised that there isn't a man by her side, and briefly entertains the idea of seeing her again sometime—but he mentally slaps himself when he realizes that he _won't_ because he's going to be shipped off to Europe, to fight in the Second World War, in less than two weeks, and he still has go to see Steve and get him on a double-date with him somehow, with someone.

It's not going to be her. He can already sense that, and for the millionth time in his life, as she meets his gaze every so often, only tearing it away so she can sip her water, he thanks God and whatever else is out there in the universe that women can't read his mind, no matter how brilliant (they think) they are. This is going to be a one-time thing. This will probably be the only chance he gets to talk with an exotic beauty such as this one, right before his eyes.

"You from around here?"

It's another casual question, asked in the same conversational, curious tone that he'd spoken in before—James is making sure that he stays nonchalant. He's trying his best not to appear like an idiot, and, being the confident young man that he is, he doesn't think he's slipped up at all. But he can see the careful consideration flutter across just underneath the surface of her blank expression. Her eyes are dancing—_swirling_—while contemplating her answer, like she's running through all the possibly answers, and trying to choose the right one. It's strange, that she's managing such a perfectly blank façade when he knows, for a fact, that she's just sorting through her options.

The woman is being careful. It's almost as if she's not sure _how_ to answer—or if she _should_ even answer. He doesn't see why not. They're never going to see each other again, after this conversation. They'll go their separate ways, and one of them will probably get killed in the war, alongside thousands of others—so he doesn't seen the harm in keeping up a conversation with her at all, though, it seems to him that it's almost like she _thinks_ she _knows_ she's not supposed to answer him, and that, admittedly, confuses him, but he says nothing about it—he says nothing at all.

Instead, he waits for her to answer, and when she does, her tone has turned into something soft—almost sleepy, like she hasn't rested her eyes in years, and he doesn't think he knows the feeling, but, again, only waits to hear her response to his question.

"The west coast."

It's not specific. He had been expecting a city or town name, or at least a county—but, perhaps, she lived in the country, or something of the like. He has to tread carefully—for some reason, he feels like he has to, and he's not going to go up against his gut feeling now when it's never been wrong before about _anything_. Still, though, he wants details—and eventually, he thinks, he'll get them out of here. No one merely says "the west coast" unless they're either from the middle of nowhere, or from a small town that no one has heard of and a small town that no one ever _will_ hear of.

He nods, and smiles. "I'm local," he says, even though she never asked, but he doesn't really care. When she smiles a little bit at him, just a little, after taking another tiny sip of her water, and nods, with just the barest downward tilt of her chin, he grins at her, dropping the polite smile immediately. He can't help himself. This is going better than he expected.

She hasn't left yet, which must be a good sign.

But she will.

He opens his mouth to ask her something else, because this chance meeting isn't going to last very long—he can feel it in his bones—but then she's getting to her feet, and he jumps to his, too, and she looks mildly surprised, and a bit suspicious. He grins down at her, knowing how strange this he's acting, but he thinks he might as well, since he's probably going to die in the next month or so.

"I was going to ask for you name," he says, hoping that she's not about to turn and flee, leaving him without a name and a regret that might plague him till his last breath—and since he's not going to deny there's something about this beautiful, pale woman that he really, _really_ likes, he's not going to die with any regrets where women are concerned. So, sir, not this Sergeant Barnes.

"You were?"

She sounds surprised, and a bit flattered, and he nods. "My name is James."

"James," she repeats, softly, and he finds that he likes how it sounds, in her voice, but waits, patiently, hoping she'll at least give him _something_ to remember her by, because if she doesn't have a name in his memory, than he might as well not even bother with remembering her at all. But, one could tell, with one look at her, that she would not be easy to forget. It was as if she were trying to sink into the background, while her existence became noticed, despite her best intentions. She says something, in a whisper, and he thinks it might be European, or something, and when she smiles at him, he his heart skips a beat - and this alarms, him because no girl has made his body react in that way before. Sure, he's liked a few girls here and there, but never _liked_ liked.

"My name," she says, and the pause she takes before she answers him fully tells him that she's hesitating, but he doesn't know why, so he just waits, until the soft murmur leaves her lips, and he's smirking as the name reaches his ears.

"is Natalia."

Without another word, but with one last, fleeting glance, the redhead—Natalia—leaves James standing out the counter, and leaves the near-silent bar.

James knows that he will never see this little, mysterious Natalia ever again.


End file.
